Okay, next try on a prompt. This time it is for memoir. This prompt came from RememRED
“Give me a memory of the color red. Do not write the word 'red' but use words that engender the color red when you hear them."
Mom's gone, only pages to turn of memories keeping her alive.
Dirty faces and knees, giggles that drift in the wind. Simple little sundresses and hair sparkling from the summer sun. Mom stood beside me, wiping the sweat from her face. Her eyes met mine, and then spreading across our faces like jam, our look alike smiles.
My basket had been full, however the juice stained lips, fingers and new strawberry spots dribbling down the front of the yellow dress revealed where the missing berries were now. She didn't mind, it was the catch, it was the process. It was the being together on our summer afternoon, sharing the sun, the field and the sweet scent of the strawberries. She bit the end off of hers, reaching out to my lips she colored my lips with the natural lipstick. I follow suit of course. With our lips sticky we skip to the house, ready to bathe these in cream and sprinkled with sugar.
Turn the page.
Window down, warm breeze whipping in, bringing no comfort. The sand scratches in those in between places where the quick shower didn't reach. My skin is tightening, drying and getting hotter. If I could find comfort I would let my tired eyes close, but I squirm and I wiggle. When we reach the driveway I slide out, the pain is easing in now. We walk in slow motion, almost silent. The water filling the tub is cool to the touch. Mom shakes the box with Mr. Bubble smiling on the cover and the tub becomes a playground. I ease in, and bury myself low.
I walk stiffly into the kitchen, fresh, clean and glowing like the tip of a matchstick. Everywhere the elastic from the nightgown rubs I feel the pain. I move and it stings. I look on the table and see she has it ready. Tea cooled and ready to take the sting. Her touch is gentle as the brown stained cottonball touches me and pulls the pain from my hot buring skin. She reminds me by morning it will be better. A little more comfortable I find my head in her lap, eyes closed and the television sounds somewhere in the background.
Turn the page.
Our little secret. A small glass of burgundy, Manishevitz. Sweet, but my face tells you I don't like it. This is mom's doctoring when the cold is coming on.
Turn the page
The cancer had changed her now. Chemo made her old. I would bring the dinner, and her face lit up when I walked in. How long? She would make it through dinner, small bites.Tomato sauce on her white tshirt and she manages a smile, "you can't take me anywhere". I hang on as she tries to walk. A year ago she was dancing. Just a year. We would climb into her bed together...just like when I was her baby. On her bed the quilt stitched with crimson hearts would envelop us both. Safe and together. Simple and precious, time. Cuddle close and remember.
Keep turning the pages....keep turning the pages. Keeping her alive with the memories.
Author note on this task: It was really tough for me to come up with a selection to write with the color red. So, I put a few together to try to create a piece. I must admit I like it a little more than when I started on Friday...but this is an unfinished piece for sure. I am loving the exercise the prompts are given me as a writer. I feel that hunger for writing coming to life again. I would really like some feedback to help me out. Even though I am new here...let me have it! I did spend some time first reading some of your previous memoirs, this is not a genre I wrote much in.
